Contagious
by Kailin
Summary: It's flu season. Some people handle it better than others. *Lizzington*


_It all started with Brenda's blog.__With Brenda raving about a TV show called The Blacklist.__I had a vague notion of what it was about, but I'd never cared enough to check it out.__Finally, as season 2 began, I decided to watch the first episode on Netflix just to see what it was like._

_Oh, my._

_So here I am, adding one more universe to my collection, one more ship to my fleet._

_And of course I make no money from this.__Who in their right mind would think I did?_

_This first venture – I'm sure there will be more – is an attempt to make myself feel better after Luther Braxton.__And because half my department at work has been ill, although I escaped with only a mild case of whatever._

**_CONTAGIOUS_**

There was something off, something different about the Post Office: Reddington could sense something amiss as soon as he walked in. The facility was… what? Quieter? Emptier? There were noticeably fewer guards, fewer agents, fewer everything. He was pondering the possibility of sudden budget cuts and job loss when Harold Cooper, hobbling on his way from his office to somewhere else, waylaid Red just behind Aram's station.

"She's not here, Red. Called in sick."

"Sick? Since when are Feds allowed to get sick?"

"Since half of America has the flu and the other half is either getting over it or ready to come down with it."

Red smirked. "If there's one benefit to jetting to all parts of the globe on a frequent basis, it's that I've been exposed to just about every bug imaginable. My immune system is spectacularly efficient, to say the least."

Cooper looked dubious. "Lucky you. So… are you here with some new information on someone? Do I need to scrape together some bodies to meet with us?"

Aram overheard and snorted. "Bodies… That's about the size of it, all right."

A speculative look passed over Reddington's face. Cooper was familiar with it; it meant the man was about to head off on some inconsequential tangent.

"I've always wondered," Red began, eyes focused on a nebulous point in the distant air, "do people who live in warmer climes become ill in the winter at the same rate as others? I mean, if so much disease is passed during the long, cold winters when we're theoretically stuck indoors, do the happy peasants in some tropical paradise avoid it? What about the lost tribes in the Amazon jungle? Do the bugs even know about them yet?"

Cooper drew in a slow breath. "Back to the reason you're here."

Red blinked out of his reverie. "It's nothing that can't wait. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in and say hello to Lizzie."

"Tomorrow, perhaps."

Red nodded, turned to go. As he did, Aram spun his chair in the same direction, a stricken expression on his face.

"Aram? You okay?" Cooper noticed it, too. The agent was definitely paler than he'd been an hour ago.

"Ah… Uh… Not really!" Aram blurted, launching himself in the direction of the men's room.

"Well." Head cocked to one side, Red watched him go. "Looks like you're down another body, Harold. If this is going on all over Washington, then the government finally has an excuse for its massive lack of productivity."

…..

The tapping on her hotel room door roused Elizabeth Keen from the groggy state she'd been in all morning. Surely the maid would let herself in, see that the guest in room 608 looked like death warmed over, and call a priest in for last rites…

But no. The tapping began again, and Liz dragged her head off the pillow.

"Come in," she croaked.

She expected to hear the announcement of "Housekeeping!", followed by the sound of the door being unlocked. When the only noise was that of the door being opened, Liz forced open bleary eyes. And groaned.

"Of course. My day wasn't complete without a visit from you two."

Red advanced toward her while Dembe took up his post at the door.

"Lizzie, I hear you're under the weather." He peered at her more closely. "Good Lord, you look worse than Luigi Benetti after I bashed his skull in. But without all that blood, of course."

Liz shot him a withering glare. "Thanks ever so much."

"I went over to the Post Office to see you, but Harold said you were feeling poorly. From the looks of it, half the building was feeling poorly, so you're not alone in your misery. Aram was heading off to hurl just as I left." Red tossed his fedora on the dresser and perched on the side of the bed. "You know, Dembe, we need to take Lizzie with us on more trips. Get her to breathe in the air of more foreign countries. Toughen up her immune system a bit. I, personally, don't get sick. It's a luxury I can't afford."

Dembe said nothing as usual, content to enjoy the expression of utmost loathing on Liz's face. He privately held the opinion that Elizabeth Keen might be the one person in the world who could rake Raymond Reddington over the coals without fear of retribution.

"Luxury?" Liz snapped. "Do I look like I'm enjoying this?"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but you really do look like hell. Is there anything I can get you?"

"No. They have room service if I ever get my appetite back," she said, her voice sounding as though it was coming from the bottom of a very deep barrel.

"Really? Here? Well, it's probably edible. At least this place is a little better than some of those motels you picked."

"Not everyone has unlimited funds."

"I would have paid. You know that." Red gazed around the room, his mouth pursed in mild disapproval. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do? I could send one of my personal physicians around."

"No, Red. It's the _flu. _I will live, even if it seems pretty unlikely just now."

Reddington sighed, reaching for Lizzie's hand and wrapping his fingers around hers. At once his hand migrated to her forehead. "You're hot. Do you have a fever?"

"I wouldn't know. For some reason, this motel doesn't supply a thermometer along with the shampoo and soap." The feeble attempt at humor fell flat.

Red bent over to plant a kiss on Lizzie's head. "Definitely a fever," he said, climbing to his feet. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart. You'll call me if you need anything?"

As usual, it was an order disguised as a polite request. Liz nodded miserably. She closed her eyes; as darkness closed in she heard the door of her motel room close behind them.

…..

Two days later, Liz received a terse message from Red, asking her to come to his latest safe house. The door would be unlocked, he said.

The scene in the living room of the safe house was not what she expected to find. No Raymond Reddington in an expensive chair, posed artfully with legs crossed, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand while he stared into space, contemplating life. No Dembe waiting patiently by his side.

Instead, Dembe was sprawled on the sofa, eyes glassy, a plastic bucket by his side. Red slumped in an easy chair, his sock feet propped on an ottoman; a folded washcloth was draped over eyes and forehead. He wore his customary suit pants and crisp white shirt, but the shirt was buttoned crookedly and only half tucked in. The usual vest and suitcoat were nowhere in sight.

Both men were the picture of abject misery. Liz tried desperately to keep from breaking out into a broad grin.

"What's all this?" she asked innocently. "Surely not the flu. After all, you two breathe the air of all those foreign countries. Your immune systems are so astounding that medical researchers everywhere are clamoring to – "

"Shut up, Lizzie," Red growled. "You know I caught it from either you or your friends at the Post Office. That makes it the Federal Flu, I suppose. Next thing I know, I'll turn into a poorly paid civil servant who spends all his days holed up in a windowless box pushing mountains of useless paper."

"_You_ were in a box," Liz reminded him sweetly.

"Yes, but it had windows."

A rumbling noise from the region of Dembe's stomach caused them both to look in his direction. With a sigh, Dembe struggled to his feet and lumbered off to the bathroom. Red sighed.

"We're a fun pair. He's been paying homage in the tiled sanctuary while I lay here and wait for my head to finish splitting open."

"Poor baby," Liz soothed, sitting down on one side of the ottoman. "You really think you're invincible, don't you, Mister Concierge of Crime?"

Red lifted one corner of the washcloth to glower at her. Liz clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in stunned surprise.

"What?" he snapped.

"I just realized… You may have to change your nickname. You don't look like Red anymore. You look more… _green_ to me!" An abrupt choking sound burst from Liz's mouth, and she gave up any pretense at keeping a straight face. Convulsed with laughter, she hugged her arms around her waist and doubled over. She was rewarded with a shove from Reddington's foot that pushed her nearly off the ottoman.

"And I suppose you think that's funny," he fumed.

Liz nodded, helpless to stop the laughter or the tears that were now streaming down her face.

"I've killed people for less," Red pointed out.

Still whimpering, Liz sat back up, using the back of one hand to wipe off her wet cheeks.

"It's only the flu," she reminded him loftily, mouth still quivering in a barely controlled grin. "You're tough, Reddington. Suck it up."

Sighing in irritation, Red pulled the washcloth from his head and dropped it to the floor.

"I didn't call you to come over so you could laugh at me, Lizzie. I thought a little sympathy might be in order. I was hoping to get a little of the tender, loving care that women are so good at."

"Really? You think I can do TLC?"

"Oh, I'm quite certain that you can. The question is, do you want to?"

The petulant small boy tone had disappeared from Red's voice. He was regarding Liz with an intense, questioning gaze that sent a wave of heat through her core.

He was teasing, of course. Liz knew he was teasing, knew with certainty that at any moment Red would throw back his head in his trademark condescending laugh and demand to know how she could possibly take him seriously.

Except he didn't.

The smile faded from Liz's face as the pounding of her heart suddenly overrode everything else. Had it really all come down to this moment? With all the times in the past months that she had tried to assess where they stood, and could never reach a conclusion? With all the times that she sensed Red doing the exact same thing?

"And if I want to?" Liz ventured softly.

A long, pregnant, Reddington pause.

"I'd say you would be welcome to try."

Blue eyes, green eyes, connecting, searching, not letting go. Just as Liz thought her heart would explode, Dembe shuffled back into the room and plopped down on the sofa with a groan.

But the moment was now, and Liz was determined not to let it pass. She rose to her feet, came to stand alongside Red's chair, and leaned close to his ear.

"I would be happy to offer you tender, loving care, Raymond Reddington," she whispered. "Besides, a very smart man once made me an offer that's quite the same thing."

"Oh?" he murmured, smiling.

"I believe that I will always do whatever I have to do to keep you alive," Liz said, her warm breath tickling his ear.

Red tilted his head to regard her, reached up with one hand to caress her cheek.

"Lizzie."

And the single word spoke volumes.


End file.
